


Drink

by Anonymous



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubcon Kissing, M/M, Mind Control, Panic Attacks, Power Imbalance, See notes for more warnings, Shaaaaaame, Slavery, Underage - Freeform, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6777370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart is a tailor on Saville Row, right up until he's kidnapped off the streets by creatures he had no idea even existed.  Then- he's not quite sure what he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: This is a work in which one of the two characters involved in a romantic relationship appears underage as a vampire. The victim of the dubcon is not the character who looks underage. And as an addendum, the views expressed in this work are not endorsed by the author. Cool? Cool.

Harry came to slowly. There was a beating pulse in his head that felt like someone was hammering it though with a railroad spike, rattling his brain with each vicious beat. It reminded him of the time he’d once, foolishly, gotten himself captured while on deployment. He’d woken in a filthy cell, bleeding from a brutal head wound and so disoriented that by the time his captors came to fetch him, he could barely comprehend their questions, much less deliver the answers they wanted. 

Thankfully, one of them had recognized the insignia on his uniform, identified him as medical personnel, and eventually convinced the others to let him go. He’d escaped mostly unharmed, but it was an experience he would not like to repeat. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like he had a choice in the matter. Here he was again, in a situation so similar that a distant calm stole over him, familiar in the face of terror. He was lying curled on his side, glasses pressed painfully into the side of his cheek. All he could see from this view was a grey, smooth concrete wall, not much more than a few feet away. Slowly, the symptoms began to filter in: nausea, dizziness, a faint fuzz to his thinking- concussion. He tried to raise his arms to make sure there was no serious injury to his skull- he’d already suffered enough there to last a lifetime- but found that his arms had been locked together behind his back from wrist to shoulder, metal cool against his skin even through his shirt. 

Someone had gone to great lengths to keep him restrained. Unfortunately, through the haze of his throbbing skull, he couldn’t even begin to fathom why. 

He rolled over once, and immediately regretted it. The back of his head met hard concrete, some sort of wall- and the impact sent a blinding shock of white through his vision. A jolt of nausea shot through his roiling stomach, and he gagged, retching onto the floor.

Shit, he thought dizzily. Shit and fuck. 

There was bile on his chin. Most infuriatingly, he couldn’t do anything to wipe it off, his shoulders pulled too far back to be of any help. 

Harry waited for the renewed pain in his head to subside, and when he no longer felt in danger of emptying his stomach, he struggled upright, kicking his legs out for leverage. When he finally could sit up straight, he had just enough space for his legs extend fully. He wanted very badly to rest his head against the wall as well, but with how tender his skull felt he knew it would likely end poorly. 

Now that he was upright, he took the opportunity to observe his surroundings further. On the opposite wall, a solid metal door interrupted the concrete. It had a slim rectangular slit in it that shouted ‘prison’ to Harry louder than even the bare cot, or the dim bulb recessed into the ceiling. The bulb in question was too far out of reach for Harry to even consider breaking it and using the glass fragments as meagre weapons. The air was bone-dry, and sapped the moisture from his lips as he breathed. 

To sum up: it was a cell, and Harry was trapped within it. 

The first time he had been in one was when he’d been captured. No matter how many times he had been asked after the fact, he never remembered any details. He could not recall where the enemy unit was located, or what the cell he had been kept in looked like, besides the fact that it was dim and smelled. His memory of the situation had effectively been shot via brain damage. 

Now that he felt more awake, he almost preferred the daze of concussion that characterized those days in his memory. Concussed patients were often too befuddled to panic, and Harry- less concussed than a few minutes ago- felt panic’s first creeping edge.

No one would come for him- he lived alone, and by nature he preferred solitude. His neighbors would not ask after him for some time, if they did at all. 

He worried at his wrists, at his fingers, and began rhythmically tapping the tip of his oxfords against the concrete to stay calm. Pacing would only make it worse, and elevate his heartrate besides. 

All he could do was wait. 

\---

As it was, he was kept waiting until he would have done indecent things for a glass of water, and then further still until his hands shook and his vision went grey from hunger. 

He felt very grateful that, at least, he didn’t feel the urgent need to piss. Though that might change as well if his captors left him for much longer. 

His shoulders and back had long since cramped and were well past the point of agony. Now, they just felt numb. It meant the blood flow had been constricted sufficiently enough that his nerves were no longer functioning, and that he had excruciating pain to look forwards to when the bindings came off. If the bindings came off. 

He didn’t think he fainted, but time and space faded to a hazy blur, his senses narrowing down until all he felt was a terrible, gnawing thirst and hunger. 

Of course, that was when they came for him.

Harry didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were nearly upon him, until the metal door unlocked with a heavy thunk that made his head throb, until a uniformed man hoisted him up roughly by the shoulder and briefly reawakened his sleeping nerves. He refrained from keening by the very edge of his teeth. 

The hallway outside was narrow and very bright compared to the dimness of his cell. As he looked down the length of it, he saw dozen more identical prison doors- metal, sleek, all tagged with a number, and felt his stomach drop to the soles of his shoes. His companion kept a very tight grasp on his bicep as the man led -dragged- him through the turns, away from the claustrophobic halls. 

As they moved, the halls grew wider and more lush; concrete floor went to thick carpet, grey walls to plaster with elaborate Rococo moulding, worlds away from the prison. The whole thing felt like an elaborate dream that refused to end, a surreal experience that Harry was nearly sure was a hallucination, encouraged by the fog in his brain. 

Finally, they took him into a lavish room, lush with carpet and rich, warm wood furnishings. Enormous wooden doors slammed shut behind him. He had just enough time to observe that much before it swirled away in a dizzy rush; they shoved him to his knees with a blow that knocked all the breath out of his lungs. He folded over, barely able to keep himself upright. The carpet looked clean, but god knew what had transpired here; he refrained from resting his forehead on it. 

“And who’s this?” A high, boyish voice sounded over the ringing in Harry’s ears, the voice seeming to come unseen from over Harry’s head. He lifted it slightly, too wary to raise himself completely. All he could see were wooden furniture legs. 

“His name is Harry Hart,” the guard said. Papers rustled, and after a little while Harry heard the sound of pages being flipped, one by one. 

“Hart, huh.” the boy said. He was more likely to be a young man, of some high station, based on the guard’s deference and the opulent- and frankly tacky- surroundings. But the accent brought to mind young men, talking and laughing in boisterous groups through south London. “Why him? He doesn’t seem very…interesting.” A few more flips. “A tailor, innit.” 

Harry allowed himself to be faintly offended. 

“Not just a tailor.” Impatience seeped into the guard’s voice. “He served in the RAMC. Earned several medals for it.” 

“But that’s not why he’s restrained so much, is it.” The boy said flatly. “Oh, come on, did you really expect me not to notice? You barely tried to hide it. You all are fuck-scared of this- what, tailor? Ex-military? Yeah, right. What else is going on here?” 

There was a stiff, offended silence. 

“Right then.” Shoes, small polished oxfords, suddenly appeared in Harry’s line of vision and met the carpet with a soft thump. There was no doubt the voice belonged to a boy now. “Thanks for wasting my time.” 

“He,” the guard said hastily, “displayed signs of mental resistance at time of collection. We were forced to subdue him physically.” 

Collection. Kidnapping, more like. It was worrisome that Harry couldn’t remember a single bit of it. 

The shoes paused. They were close enough that Harry didn’t dare move. “Better,” the boy said. “Now I’m interested.” 

The polished leather tips swung in Harry’s direction. A small, soft hand came down and with brutal strength pulled his head up, thumb digging into his chin. The movement strained his already abused shoulders. He couldn’t suppress the half-gasp that escaped his mouth as a result, nor the flush of humiliation. 

He blinked away the tears that welled up, and found himself caught by emerald-green eyes. 

The boy was beautiful. He looked to be no more than fourteen, with porcelain-smooth skin and a gorgeous slope to his jaw only slightly masked by fat. Undoubtedly he would grow into a stunning young man. 

It was not, however, enough to make Harry forget his predicament. The boy’s brilliant eyes were narrowed, the line of his mouth turned to an unimpressed frown. Harry was being judged, evaluated. A horse brought to auction. 

From the angle, his neck began to ache, his skull starting to feel too tight for his brain. A tight compression drew its way around his head, squeezing until he could barely see straight. He tried to shake his head away, relieve the pressure, but the boy’s hand was immoveable- a torturous anchor that held him fixed to a single point, terrifyingly strong. 

Harry felt, suddenly, that it was imperative that he move. He itched to. The desire spread throughout his body, up through his shoulders to his arms and legs until he near-trembled from it. At the same time, he knew- with absolute clarity- that he should not. 

The pressure around his head and the itching in his limbs quickly became unbearable, pushing him to just move- to do anything, anywhere. He shifted just enough to lean forwards into the boy’s grasp, and pressed his arms up- 

His back lit up with agony, as if branded with white-hot iron. 

When he was once again lucid, his face was half-pressed to the ground, what was likely to be a new bruise throbbing against his lower lip. The pressure was gone. He felt boneless, limp, exhausted mentally and physically, scraped out and hollow. The carpet was so comfortable in that moment that his eyes began to drift shut. 

The boy’s voice broke into his thoughts. “-good. I want the restraints off.” 

Harry held his breath, eyes snapped open, ears straining. The guard murmured something indistinct. 

“Please,” the boy scoffed, “as if. He’s no threat physically. If you’re worried about me, don’t. I won’t get any proper reading if he’s in that much pain.” 

A ball of ice dropped low in Harry’s stomach. Reading. What on earth did he mean by that? A test? Some sort of medical procedure?

Before he could think on it further arms wrapped around him, drawing him up and settling him on a lushly-cushioned chair in the dizzy span of seconds. Harry knew he was slim, but much of that was muscle- and he was over 180 centimeters, besides. But the boy had moved him as effortlessly as he might shift a recalcitrant pet. 

From here, he could see the table surface, so polished it looked like glass. His own reflection was considerably less perfect. His hair had long since fallen out of the style he’d put it in that morning, drooping dully over his forehead, and it looked like there was the beginnings of a horrid bruise across his right cheek. He also noted with some irritation that his suit jacket had been wrinkled irreparably by the restraints. 

“Get them off,” the boy said. 

The guard moved forwards, doing something Harry couldn’t see. He heard a click of metal from his wrists, and the slithery movement of fabric before the entire mass eased and gave. 

The relief was too much. Harry panted, gritting his teeth as his arms dropped to his sides, numb and then burning up as his nerves conducted a fiery reawakening. A small hand smoothed over his forehead, and a jolt of surprise shot through him. 

When Harry could look over, he found the boy staring at him intently, still idly toying with his hair. Then, as he watched, the boy’s mouth curled into a wide smirk. It looked distinctly out of place on his angelic features. 

“Feel better?” He asked. 

It was the first anyone had asked his opinion of the circumstances. Harry swallowed dryly, throat sore from lack of water. “Quite,” he said, voice cracking embarrassingly. 

The boy’s smile stretched, and he removed his hand from Harry’s forehead. “Good.” 

Harry resisted the urge to shake his arms out, knowing that it would end in cramping muscles; instead, he raised them slowly, carefully, and brought them to rest in his lap. They twinged painfully anyway, and Harry’s breath was short and fast until the sting faded. 

“Why am I here?” he asked. 

The boy shrugged. “I dunno. But,” he said, scratching the side of his nose, “you do smell very nice. So there’s that.” 

He’d been kidnapped, starved, and forced to languish for hours in a cramped cell because he smelled nice. “If my cologne is what you were after, you could have saved yourself a great deal of trouble by making a trip to Harrods,” he said, utterly unable to keep the bite from his tone. 

One corner of the boy’s lips lifted. “No. It wasn’t the cologne.” He watched Harry, something curious and amused glittering in his eyes. Then he turned to the guard. “Could I have a sample?”

“Yes. But no marks allowed. Wait a moment.” He pulled a radio from his belt and spoke into it. Not long after that, a woman entered the room, carrying a metal tray. There was a bottle of isopropyl alcohol on it, some cotton swabs, and what looked to be an intravenous catheter still packaged in blue plastic. She put the tray down at Harry’s left, and instinctively he tried to inch away. 

“Don’t move,” the boy said. 

Harry turned to shoot him an incredulous look, and found that he could not. His breath brushed his lips as it traveled in and out of his lungs. He felt the air shift as the woman moved beside him and snapped on gloves. She slipped his jacket off him, moving his arms like puppet limbs. And-yet- his legs and torso were frozen in place, limp. 

He could not move. 

“Calm down.” 

What a pathetic sentiment. The woman lifted his right arm to the table and delicately turned it until the veins of his wrist faced up, and traced them to his inner elbow. Alcohol dropped, cold, freezing onto his skin. 

The boy, watching the proceedings, looked very bored. Harry wanted to bare his teeth and snarl, fight back with every vein and muscle in his body as long as he still drew air. He wanted to punch and kick and break the woman’s arm. He could feel the breath escaping him in harsh gasps, his chest heaving even as- even as- 

The boy’s hand came out of nowhere. It pressed against his forehead and abruptly Harry’s breath slowed to a crawl. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. It was nice. Almost meditative. He considered struggling again and the idea fell from his mind, briefly stirring the surface before dissolving into ephemeral mist. He drifted at the bottom of a very deep, still lake. The catheter bit into the crook of his elbow and drew out two slim vials of blood. 

His hands were trembling, Harry noted absently. He stared until his eyes began to feel quite dry. Then he blinked. He blinked again, and this time he saw a cotton ball taped to his inner arm. It itched. Then the jacket was back on him. 

The boy tugged him upright, and the discomfort from where the arm of the chair had been pressing into his side lessened. 

“Oh, come on, sit up,” the boy grumbled. Harry blinked at him too. His eyes were very pretty. Like emeralds, polished, glittering. There were cufflinks in the shop with crystals like that. 

“Flattering,” he sniped. Harry idly wondered how he knew what Harry was thinking, and stopped wondering when the boy pressed his back into the chair and growled, “Stay.” 

Harry did. But doing just that was boring, so he put his hands on the table and amused himself by smearing patterns in the oils of his fingers that marred the polished surface. 

“I did warn you,” the guard said. 

“I know,” the boy sighed. “He’s very resistant, for a human.” He picked up the vial. “Don’t worry, I don’t blame you. I ask you people to bring me the troublesome ones for a reason.” 

The cap of the vial came off with a crackling pop, and its contents disappeared swiftly down his throat. 

“That’s unsanitary, you know,” Harry said idly. “Dozens of diseases you could contract doing that, and an overdose of iron besides.” He tilted his head. “And it would be a shame if you died now.” 

The boy snorted. “Glad to hear it.” He ran his tongue around his lips, chasing the last drops of red. “Huh. You do taste as nice as you smell.” 

Harry decided not to say anything about that. 

“He’s very healthy, for a human at his age,” the guard offered. 

“I’m aware.” The boy drank the other vial as well, more slowly this time, and this time Harry caught a glimpse of bright fangs as he sipped. Alarm flared, then died quickly when Harry reasoned there was little to be done about it. 

The guard looked at Harry curiously. Harry looked right back. “What did you do to him?” 

“Just-“ The boy flicked his fingers- “a bit of pressure.” He leaned over to peer into Harry’s eyes, and grimaced. Harry stared, entranced. Pretty. “Maybe a lot of pressure,” he amended.

“We couldn’t hold him, mentally. I don’t think any fledgling could hold him.” 

“Yeah, I’d guess not even a full-fledge could keep him for too long. You’d probably have to sell him to nobles and up… which limits your options.” There was a significant pause. “They don’t really go in for difficult servants, much less ones this old.”

“But you do,” the guard said. 

“I do,” the boy said. “Lucky you.” The boy hopped off his chair. “I’ll take him. Tell your boss it’ll be direct-deposit, as usual. And send Merlin in with a copy of Hart’s papers, will you?” 

The guard nodded sharply, and left. Then the boy turned on Harry, emerald eyes glittering. “And you, Harry Hart. You come with me.” 

\---

Harry trailed the boy through more hallways of lush carpet. It was becoming increasingly difficult to set one foot in front of the other, but he didn’t know why. He felt fine. Curiously lightheaded and perhaps oddly…flighty, but otherwise fine. 

They finally arrived at a sitting room, whereupon the boy slumped into a chair with all of the grace of a spoiled young prince, his legs sprawled and expression one of acute disinterest. After a moment, he yawned, and those fangs once more flashed into sight. 

He caught sight of Harry’s expression, and smirked. “No worries. You won’t be getting bitten. Yet.” 

Well, that was fine then. It didn’t feel right to sit down just yet, so Harry wandered the room, trailing a hand on the textured wallpaper as he went. The interior decoration was distinctly dated, not necessarily in materials but certainly in fashion. It looked like Harry itched to tear the place apart. 

He eventually wound his way around to where the room turned into a hallway, which led to a wooden door. He set his hand on the knob. 

“No,” the boy said. “Forget it. Come here.” 

Harry came around to the front of the boy’s chair. 

“Kneel.” 

Harry didn’t want to. It would hurt. 

This time the boy looked less indulgent and more irritated. “Kneel,” he said again, just a hint of bite in his tone. 

Not quite willingly, Harry sank to his knees in the plush carpet. It did hurt. But at least he could sit up this time- he rocked back on his heels to ease the pressure, and the pain vanished. 

Harry hadn’t been kneeling there long when footsteps sounded softly from the hallway. There was the guard again, and a man trailing after him; he was tall and bald and had a tablet bundled with a sheaf of papers tucked the crook of his arm. The guard gestured the man into the room, then retreated. 

The man entered the room proper, eyes widening behind his glasses when he caught sight of Harry. 

“Eggsy,” he said. “You’ve been busy.” 

“Merlin,” the boy- Eggsy- said. “You’re late.” 

“Blame the security.” Merlin came closer, standing by Eggsy’s chair and bending to peer into Harry’s eyes. “Why is he so deep in thrall?” 

“I may have overdone it,” Eggsy admitted grudgingly. “He’ll be fine. Do you have everything? Can we leave?” 

“Whenever you want.” 

Eggsy stood, and gave Harry an imperious look. “Come on.” 

It was hard to stand. By the time Harry rose to his feet, Merlin and Eggsy were halfway to the door. Harry swayed, waiting the feeling to return to his legs before he attempted moving forwards. It was more difficult than he expected to stay upright. Surely, he could manage a brief walk- but only managed a few steps before his knees buckled. 

He crumpled to the ground. 

“Ach,” he heard Merlin tsk, and a warm arm curled around his torso. “Eggsy. You blocked his pain responses, didn’t you.” Gentle fingers probed at his cheek and the tender lump at the back of his head which no longer stung, but felt merely numb. 

“So?,” Eggsy said mulishly. 

“We’ve discussed this.” Merlin sighed. “If you’re not careful with it you could hurt him permanently.” 

“Well, I can’t take him out of it now,” Eggsy said. “He won’t cooperate.” 

“In the car, then,” Merlin said. 

“Fine.” 

Harry hated not being able to walk of his own power, leaning on Merlin for the rest of the trip, but whenever he tried to stand on his own the muscles of his calves and thighs convulsed in the oddest way and then gave out beneath him, putting even more of his weight on Merlin’s shoulders. 

So he stopped that, instead hobbling along as best he could. 

They exited out into a underground garage, and soon enough he found himself bundled into the backseat of a plush car, nicer than many of his clients’ cars and certainly the nicest of any he’d been in before. The leather was a rich tan, supple and smooth and cool against his palms. 

There was a black-out pane separating the driver and the backseat. The windows were blacked as well. A moment later, Eggsy climbed in next to him, and Merlin shut the door after. The locks clicked, and then the car started. 

Merlin’s voice almost immediately crackled over the intercom. “Eggsy.” 

“I know, Merlin,” Eggsy snapped. He glanced at Harry, and something wary and apprehensive flickered in his eyes. 

His hand breached the gap between them and smoothed across Harry’s forehead. 

Harry keeled forwards, dizziness and nausea rushing over him in a concerted wave. A high, thin whine escaped his throat as he panted, hands clenching involuntarily. 

The convulsing of his legs- that had been cramping, nigh-unrecognizable without the pain that usually accompanied it. Well, he knew what it was now. 

“What did-“ His lip cracked, copper blooming across his tongue- “what did you do to me?” He remembered- he remembered kneeling without so much as a token protest, following Eggsy- not a boy, some creature- like a dazed and complacent child. “I had no control,” he whispered. 

He turned to find Eggsy staring at his face fixedly, his eyes bright and gleaming. Harry swiped a hand across his mouth, and it came away smeared with blood. He looked from his hand to Eggsy, and their eyes met. 

“What are you?” He breathed. 

Eggsy’s eyes shuttered, and he drew back. Instead of answering the question, he flipped the lid of the massive bulk of an armrest between them to reveal a refrigerated compartment. 

“Thirsty?” he asked, offering Harry a water bottle. 

Harry almost refused on principle, but the aching of his throat and his throbbing skull told him smartly to do otherwise. He took it. One, two, three tries, and the seal crackled open in his shaking hands. 

“You should probably drink that slower,” Eggsy said. 

“You probably shouldn’t have kidnapped me,” Harry snapped, but put the bottle down. Although he was still desperately hungry, he seemed to no longer in danger of immediate death. He blamed this for the way his thoughts seemed to fall from his mind directly to his mouth. His mother had always told him his tongue would get him in trouble. If there was a moment for trouble, it was now, mouthing off to someone who likely could have made him cheerfully dive into the Thames. 

“That had nothing to do with me.” 

“Oh, no.” Harry said. “Nothing to do with you, of course. God forbid you fail to support an organization that systematically kidnaps people off the fucking streets. What on earth would you do with your money then? It would be utterly wasted on anything else.”

A ferocious scowl adored Eggsy’s face. “I liked you better when you were in thrall.” 

“And I liked you better when I was completely ignorant of your existence.” 

Eggsy rolled his eyes. “The point is, I didn’t kidnap you. Technically, the Court did. I just bought you. But do you want answers or not?” 

Harry stayed quiet. 

“Better. What I did, which I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, was put you in thrall. Generally, it makes people a lot more willing to follow orders.” Eggsy cast a bored glance in Harry’s direction. “Luckily or unluckily for you, you’re pretty hard to control even in thrall. If I hadn’t picked you up they might have just let you go… or killed you.” 

He might have been let go. Or dead, his mind whispered, but he ignored that. He clenched his hands, shaking, in his lap. “And what are you, exactly?” 

“What, like the blood-drinking and the fangs didn’t give it away? Go on, have a guess.” 

“Don’t tell me that you’re a bloody vampire.” 

“Then I won’t.” Eggsy examined his fingernails, unconcerned. 

Harry stared at him, speechless. “Right. Very well. Whatever this farce is- do you honestly expect that no one will notice me gone?” 

“The Court’s been getting away with it for decades, haven’t they?” Eggsy drawled, and Harry felt ice trickle down his spine, washing over his body in a cold wave. “Admittedly, you were a little riskier than most people they pick up; but not by much. They’re very careful, you know. They watched you for ages before they decided you were a good target. What did your files say again? Ah, yeah. Lives alone, parents dead, distant relatives estranged. No relationships. Leaves the house almost only for work, gets coffee at on Saturdays, and usually spends a good few hours trawling antique shops on Sundays. And you recently told your boss that you were taking a week off, didn’t you? It’ll be at least that long before anyone cares that you’re missing.” Eggsy leaned forwards. “Face it. No-one’s coming for you, won’t be even looking, for a good, long while.” 

Harry plucked at the door handle without much hope. As he expected, it was locked. No escape. 

“Were you going to jump from a moving car?” Eggsy asked, eyebrow raised. “Bold, Mr. Hart.” 

“Well, when the other options are slavery or death,” Harry said, mouth moving almost of its own volition. 

He felt breathless, ill. His heart beat a rapid staccato in his chest. It felt foolish, being so frightened- and he was frightened- of a young boy, not when he’d experienced so much worse. But now, he knew some of what that innocent façade concealed. Eggsy caught his gaze and held it. He looked predatory, like he planned to swallow Harry whole, tear him apart. 

He was smirking, and Harry was sick with the uncertainty of it all. 

It didn’t last long; in between one blink and the next, Eggsy slammed Harry against the car door. His head smacked into the moulded armrest, ramming the tender part of his skull, and agony shot through him like a lightning bolt. 

“Mr. Hart,” Eggsy said. Harry registered nothing through his hazy vision but the gentle, savage curve to the boy’s mouth and the brilliant green of his eyes. Eggsy’s breath was warm damp against the shell of Harry’s ear. “I’ve only just acquired you. I’m not about to let you go.” 

The boy kissed him. Harry jolted in surprise, trying to jerk away, but Eggsy followed him, unrelenting. Harry was too stunned to resist. In a quick movement, Eggsy slipped his tongue easily into Harry’s gasping mouth. He jerked back when Harry gathered enough of his mental faculties to _bite._

Eggsy laughed. “Cheeky,” he said, then dove in again, cruel. He worried his tongue against the split in Harry’s lip, only just starting to crust over, and bit down with just the edge of his teeth. It burst open like a ripe plum. The wound dripped wetness down Harry’s chin. Eggsy chased the trail with his mouth with his tongue, sucking gently on Harry’s lip. Then, he wound his hand through Harry’s hair and yanked back with brutal strength. 

Harry could not help the sharp gasp that escaped. He could feel Eggsy’s resulting smile against his bare neck, held ruthlessly exposed. Small, sharp points pressed into his flesh, a threat as real as a knife held to the throat, or a gun to the head, so close to breaching skin that Harry thought he could feel his pulse pounding rapidly against the fangs. 

They hovered like that, caught in an agonizing limbo while Harry gulped at the air, trying to calm his racing heart. After a few terrifying moments, Eggsy drew back and grinned, letting Harry see his face. There was blood- Harry’s- shining red on his lips. 

“Not yet,” he said, and let go of Harry’s hair. 

Harry scrambled upright, drawing his rumpled jacket around him. Like armor. Armor, he repeated to himself. Armor. He couldn’t stop gasping, his breath coming in rapid bursts. He was hyperventilating. His fingers shook so badly he couldn’t do up the buttons, somehow pulled free in the scuffle. Armor. Armor. Armor. 

He didn’t look at Eggsy, lounging on the other side of the car. He pressed an arm into his stomach and folded over, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. Blood seeped out of his lower lip, stinging against the fine grey wool of his suit, and Harry breathed in the smell of it on every desperate inhale. He was growing faint from the lack of oxygen; at this point, he would have almost welcomed it. 

“Calm down,” Eggsy said. It was the single worst thing the boy could have voiced. Harry’s breath hitched so badly that he saw dark spots flicker across his vision. 

Sometime while Harry was attempting to recover himself, the car pulled to a stop. The locks clicked again. Harry threw the door open and scrambled out, heedless of his screaming muscles. Dignity was a lost cause; he curled against the side of the car, just trying to control his heaving lungs. The car shook with two concussive thuds, then Eggsy came around the front of the car, Merlin trailing after. 

The man looked shocked. “Eggsy, what-“ 

Eggsy cut him off with a wave of his hand, idly licking blood off of his thumb and lips. He somehow looked small and unthreatening even against Merlin’s height. “Take Mr. Hart to his rooms. I permit you to give him sedatives, if he needs them; I won’t be feeding off him directly for some time yet.” 

Even when Eggsy had gone, Harry couldn’t stop panting. He heard the click of Merlin’s shoes come closer. Oxfords. Oxfords, not brogues, he thought giddily- a saying from a lifetime ago, without vampires or guards or blank prison cells. 

“Shit,” Merlin hissed- Scottish. The man was Scottish. Scottish, scot, Scotsman. Kingsman didn’t have many clients like that. It was unusual. They didn’t do kilts. You went to Scotland for bespoke kilts, Savile Row for bespoke suits, and if Kingsman was anything it was certainly on Savile Row. 

“Come on.” Harry couldn’t respond. “Hart?” he asked, and crouched to offer him a hand. This time, Harry threw out his arm to take it, curled limp fingers around. The hold broke the moment Merlin tried to pull him up. 

Harry’s grasp was very weak. Perhaps low blood sugar, Harry thought, feeling nauseous. Or just- not enough oxygen. 

An arm descended suddenly around his shoulders, and Harry flinched violently. 

“Sorry,” Merlin said, his voice coming from very far away. The arm came down again, more slowly, and this time Harry stilled. “Alright,” Merlin soothed. “You’ll be fine. Just- up- there we go,” he said encouragingly. 

No he would not be fine, Harry thought, stumbling along in Merlin’s grip. He would not- would not- 

He didn’t entirely recall the journey to his rooms, later; it came and went in flickers and impressions, dark carpet and green wallpaper and something warm and fuzzy underfoot. Merlin drew off his shoes and levered him into bed, which felt like clouds, and pulled the duvet up around him like he was a child and not a grown man of over fifty years. 

A cool hand descended on his forehead, and a soft damp cloth wet his battered lips. “Sleep,” Merlin said. 

He did.


End file.
